I walk my dogs every morning.  Sometimes we go to the beach, but usually we walk around the neighborhood.  We go early, when the streets are quiet and the sun is just barely in the sky, casting an orange glow.  I have two dogs; both are small mixed breeds.  Sonny Boy is the male, Scout is the female. Together, they equal about 35 pounds of raw dog power.  I walk them on a double leash because it’s a more tangle-free way to get our steps in.

On our walks, I might plan for the day ahead, recall a recent conversation with a friend, or wonder where I left my Apple pencil.  Sometimes I listen to an audio book or podcast, watching my rascals trot along in front of me.  They raise their noses to the many aromas riding the fresh morning air, and then bury them in overgrown grass to snuffle out cat poop.  There are two things that can potentially interrupt this serenity:  the BIG DOG on the corner, and any other dog on the street.  If we don’t time it right, the BIG DOG will be out for his morning constitution, alert to the many threats on his territory.  We can’t see or hear him, but he knows when we’re there.  Once he gets wind of us, he charges the fence barking and snarling, the fence reverberating with the impact of solid muscle hitting it like a missile.  Every time, I nearly faint from the adrenaline rush.  My dogs sniff along the bottom of the fence issuing threatening yips and growls in their little dog way, the BIG DOG eventually moving on from their pathetic existence. 

Sometimes another dog will approach suddenly from around a corner or from inside a house, their sleepy dog parent in tow, most often in pajamas or sweats, hurrying Fido along to do his business.  At first sight of the other dog, Sonny goes insane.  He barks and strains at the the leash, zigzagging back and forth, jerking my shoulder hard enough for me to spew profanity.  Scout hops on the crazy train and barks along with Sonny, but she is yanked around like a rag doll on the double leash and can’t be taken seriously.  There is no malice in Sonny’s behavior.  Throughout the encounter, his tail is wagging in loops, his tongue hanging from his dopey doggie grin. 

As with all things I don’t understand, I looked to a higher source to find out why my dog is a lunatic.  I Googled it.  According to a veterinarian on a pet training site, Sonny fits the profile of a “Frustrated Greeter.”  This is a dog who desperately wants to get up close and personal with other dogs; say hello, get some sniffs in, maybe do a little tussling.  Being held back by the leash is what causes excessive barking and running back and forth. The behavior isn’t aggressive, it is more about seeking attention. 

Hello there!  Look at me!  I’m a dog, too!

The recommended response for the behavior—according to the internet vet—is to walk quickly past the other dog and, by your assertive stride, make it clear that you will not be stopping to socialize with the other dog.  This will eventually show the Frustrated Greeter that barking and posturing will get them nowhere. 

Yesterday I was walking my dogs on the final stretch toward home.  Close to where we were walking, a man in a truck pulled up to park, bumping his tire hard against the curb.  He got out of the truck and walked around the front of it to check for damage.  He was bent down examining the tire as we were passing, an easy mark for my dogs to amble over and investigate.  The man was burly, dressed in well-worn jeans and white t-shirt.  His forehead was covered in a black bandana, dark hair coiled down to his shoulders.  He turned his attention to my dogs.  He rubbed their heads and said something like, “good doggies.” 

I pulled the dogs back and said cheerfully, “Good morning.”  And, since I had seen him hit the curb, I threw in, “is everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded.  “All good.”  Cool.

I drew up on the leash, gave a little wave goodbye, and aimed the dogs toward home.  Before I could make headway, the man began to talk.  I turned back to be polite.  He pointed to the apartment complex behind me and told me he was a contractor hired to work on the rusted railing on the second floor.  I hadn’t asked, but I glanced at the railing, gave an appreciative, “Wow,” and followed it with, “Well, be careful up there,” and once again, turned to walk away.  While I was still within earshot, he launched into how he had fallen once, off a ladder. “I almost busted my ankle.”  There was clearly more to the story, so I sighed and turned back, not wanting to be rude. 

Like a good listener, I nodded affirmatively when he told me how he is often called out to fix damaged railings because rust is the enemy this close to the beach.  I showed concern when he launched into sewage pollution in California beaches and how it would never be solved because of a corrupt local government.  The dogs pulled and whined, bored.  I listened, nodded, and shifted from foot to foot, sneaking obvious glances at my watch.  He did not care.  At this point he had mistaken my politeness for interest and stood with his arms crossed, feet planted in a now-that-I’ve-got-your-attention stance.  I was doomed. 

He told me about his 30-mile commute to work because he can’t afford housing closer to where the work is.  He griped about the economy, the president, and gas prices. 

“This world, right?”  His expression said we’re all going to hell in a handbasket, and he waited for me to agree.  But before he could utter that little chestnut aloud, I was done, and began to walk away, throwing him an over-the-shoulder wave and an irritated, “Gotta go.” 

Walking away, I thought, what is this guy’s deal?   He just kept yapping, growing more and more excited as he barked his opinions, wagging his tongue non-stop. 

Oh. My.  The guy was a Frustrated Greeter.

Just like Sonny, he wanted to get up close and personal, show off, and grab some attention.  What did the internet vet say to do with the Frustrated Greeter?  Keep walking so that you make it clear you will not stop to socialize with the other dog.  Although it was too late for that, I picked up speed to put more distance between us. Still, the guy kept talking, getting louder as I retreated. 

“You know, there are a lot of women in construction now,” he complained just below a shout. I did not respond.  “And some of them want to be guys.”

I looked at the houses I passed, hoping no one was standing at their open door, hearing this as they scooped up their mail or newspaper.  Then I heard him snarl, “I mean, when we were kids they were Tom Boys, right?”  Silence from me. “But now they’re gay, or trans, whatever that means!”

Oh Boy.  Some dogs just need a muzzle.